Llwy
by Val-Creative
Summary: This was the first time Hunith ever managed to get a man into her bed—and her mother, God rest her soul, would have been appalled. He was but a stranger, nearly unconscious with fever, carried in by two of the stronger farmhands. /Canon Era. Oneshot.


**.**

**.**

This was the first time Hunith ever managed to get a man into her bed—and her mother, God rest her soul, would have been _appalled_.

Not that it took much of an effort. He was shivering and nearly unconscious with fever, carried in by two of the stronger and well-muscled farmhands. At the time, she was nearly twenty years and lived alone. Elaine offered to keep her company, eyeing the bearded man with the utmost suspicion.

He came out of nowhere, barreling on horseback into her tiny, restless village, into her life, without a second's consideration.

Whomever this man was, a great deal of sticky-warm blood had pooled through his damp, formidable cloak and layers of his rain-muddied, tattered, rough-spun clothing. Hunith couldn't very well send a gravely injure person away with a clear conscious.

"W'hut if 'ee be a scoundrel?" Elaine questioned, folding her arms and watching in mild disapproval as a solemn-faced Hunith wrung her cloth in the basin. "A cut-throat? 'Ee didn't get those wounds for nothin', love."

"He's exhausted and has a very high temperature." Hunith shook her head, loose auburn curls swaying. "I don't expect any answers tonight."

**.**

**.**

She received none upon the morrow.

The dark-eyed, bearded stranger remained in her cot, wrapped in thick bandages filled with herbs to slow the blood-flow. Hunith finally shooed her good and yet o_verly protective_ friend out of her mother's home—for the sake of the man's healing and for her own nerves.

He said very little to Hunith, merely grunting or staring in bemusement when she offered up some milky vegetable broth.

"You mustn't be so stubborn," she insisted, letting her crudely-sculpted spoon drop back into the bowl. He should have considered himself fortunate about his circumstances. Many in Ealdor were cautious of newcomers and the trouble they may bring, especially in the later hours, and would have turned him away. "I'm only trying to help."

His dry-cracked lips went separate.

"Why?"

For a moment, Hunith knew she fallen off her guard. _Why_… goodness her, that was quite an attitude to have. What on earth had this man experienced in his days to make him think there was a sincere lack of trust or goodwill in a person's heart?

"So you _can_ speak," she said outright. Not about to made a fool of, Hunith said with a raised eyebrow and a hint of skepticism in her usually gentle voice, "Do acts of kindness need a constant explanation for them? You may as well asked why it rains."

A gruff laugh slipped out of his mouth, though she believed the bodily shudder that overcame him was of pain.

"Forgive me," he murmured. "You have indeed been very kind to me."

Hunith's cheeks went a pleasingly rosy colour, at the _absurdly_ handsome quality of his smile.

"I would have a name when you're well enough for it," she said, not bothering to combat her own half-smile and spooning the cooling broth once more.

The man told her, before allowing the bittersweet liquid between his lips, "The next time."

**.**

**.**

Hunith had began to enjoy the sudden and unexpected company.

After toiling and working in the fields until sunset, as did some of the other younger and more able women of the village, she was often greeted by the sight of the healing man.

Once he could sit upright, he would prop himself on the floor, with the same hunk of willow wood and a carving knife. His coal-black, tangly beard now had been shaven away from existence. Leaving just the angular contours of his tanned face framed by his shoulder-length hair.

She liked to imagine his age to be several years older than her—and after a short month, she learned he was not yet thirty.

"What are you making then?" Hunith occasionally would ask, peering up from her latest hemming project—the miller's daughter was no longer betrothed and due to marry come the late summer. It brought to mind her own lack of affairs, but Hunith thumped it out of her mind on instinct. Too familiar with the habit.

At his silence, she readied her needle and thread, fingers adjusting the soft, richly bright fabric of the dress in her lap.

But it didn't lull the conversation. Just because one did not speak, did not mean they never listened

"You should take care—you seem to be running out of wood," Hunith observed, grinning as if humored. His knife continued scraping but began to hesitate on its broad strokes. "But I might be willing to fetch you another block in exchange of a name."

Her self-satisfaction faded like the dying sunlight out her window, as he replied with a monotonous, "The next time."

"The next time _when_?"

Hunith considered throwing down her hands. What an _impossible_—

"The next time it rains."

**.**

**.**

Elaine rarely visited her mother's home for long stays, not while the man was free to roam it.

"You be 'arbouring a criminal, you'll see."

Hunith stopped walking the long, dusty road and aimed a glaring frown at her companion, anger prickling under her skin.

"While he is under my roof, he is my guest and will be treated with respect there," she snapped, hauling her basket. "I'll say no more."

The other woman stared back, as if struck astonished. Several of her ember-dark curls peeking out from under her cap.

"No, no it can't be—you _love_ 'im," Elaine breathed, upper lip curling.

Hunith's mouth fell wide open, an invisible, almost burning tingle spreading through her and flushing her chest. She—what?

"I… Lord almighty, I don't!" she protested, clutching her food basket to herself. It may have seemed that way to others. An unwed girl, ready to bear children, inviting a strange, attractive man under her roof. Not that his being attractive was _important_, she scolded in her thoughts.

Elaine's brown eyes narrowed with an emotion Hunith truly loathed: pity.

"The sooner 'ee is gone, better we all are."

**.**

**.**

He had stopped whittling in front of her for the last few days—but left thin, yellow aged curls on Hunith's newly swept floor.

Her frustration brewed over, just as a thunderstorm crackled in Ealdor's skies.

She blocked him in the doorway one evening, going straight-faced and her blue eyes setting in pointed determination, despite their size differences. And he only smiled at her, as if knowing, approaching and closing in their space.

"Balinor," whispered past his pink, less dry lips. Hunith found herself gazing too dreamily at them. "My name. I'm a Dragonlord."

The title spurred on a flicker of recognition. Something in Gaius' old texts…

"I'm the last one. I have magic. I fled from Uther Pendragon and he means to kill me and anyone who grants me safety." Balinor's forehead lines, affectionately caressing hers, and she reached up, pressing her hands first to his shoulders, before cupping his face. "I put you and your village at a great risk. Do you fear me now as the others do?"

_You be 'arbouring a criminal, you'll see…_

Hunith's face relaxed into a sympathetic look, boldly tracing her thumb-pad against the corner of his mouth. She shook her head as a response, bringing his face to level hers and slotting their grinning lips together. He nipped teasingly against her bottom one, sliding his tongue to dampen any hurt.

This man was so brave… and, he was what she needed after all.

**.**

**.**

Hunith woke next to an empty pillow.

Her small nipples ached to the exposure of the cold room, and her breasts likely still had fingerprints of Balinor's hands along with her thighs. The combination of smells were their sweat, heavy and musky in the air, and like the sharp tang of willow-wood spice.

She rolled over towards that flattened pillow, only to find atop it… her spoon.

_No_, it couldn't be hers. It wasn't like anything she owned.

The spoon had been _beautifully_ crafted, its handle being of knots and swirls. When Hunith glanced closer—she saw a dragon's mouth. Its eyes and its wings, prepared to take flight.

"It's yours," came a hot puff against the shell of Hunith's ear.

She took the love spoon into her hands, marveling it with childish glee.

Balinor rubbed the tops of her naked, pale and mole-dusted shoulders, seated down beside her. "I want you to be my woman … if you'll have me," he said, hopefully.

Hunith tossed him a demure look, kiss-bruised lips inching up.

"And if I refuse?" she asked.

"The sadness inside me would tear me apart, but I would understand your feelings, Hunith. You barely know me."

She touched Balinor's cheek, lovingly holding her palm there.

"I believe I know you well enough. You are a _good_ man, and I know that in my heart." Hunith wrapped an open hand to his neck, tugging him over her as she lowered herself back into the bedding. His gloominess broke. "I accept," she murmured to his hair-bristled jaw, moaning as his hardened cock nudged at her opening.

With tender and quick maneuvering, Balinor sank to the root, gripping onto her hips and thrusting easily in the spend collecting inside her. They moved in tandem, as if they were meant to all along. Hunith knew that losing her innocence would bleed her initially, as it did by account of most girls in her village, but not as much as she was led to believe. The beginning sense of pain, of being stretched to her limits, drifted off, and the previous evening had been awash with heart-racing bliss

Hunith claws her nails to the soft flesh of his back, moaning louder, pushing up into his hips and timing it against his deepening thrusts. Her body heated with pleasure. She felt weightless, her muscles clenching and releasing, edging and edging and she _needed_ to reach the end of it with him, hot and wet and still buried inside her.

"Give me a son," she gasped, and quivered in place. The heat dizzied her and went up her limbs, the tingling but like a powerful itch.

Balinor emptied himself once more with a groan, kissing her collarbone and embracing her as they breathed together.

_Just like you._

**.**

**.**

Hunith never admitted any loathing she had for him. It couldn't vanish if it never existed to begin with. Leaving had been for his—and for her safety.

It didn't hurt any less, but she wasn't lonely. Not anymore.

Her little Merlin wagged the wooden spoon in her hand, glimpsing with big eyes—_her eyes_—at the intricate, beautiful knots and swirls.

"Papa, papa…" he babbled, and Hunith grinned and smacked a loving kiss on the crown of his soft, black hair.

"Yes, my boy."

**.**

**.**

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><p><em>Requestedwon by dollopheadedmerlin on Tumbl__r! Thanks very much for reading and any, any comments are sincerely appreciated! Lllwy is "spoon" in Welsh!_


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